


Cold Fire

by BeccaVexing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post S7, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2018-12-23 17:58:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11995026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeccaVexing/pseuds/BeccaVexing
Summary: Sandor finds himself back in Winterfell. It's cold. He hates it. Set in the days after the season 7 finale (we are, however, going to ignore the final scene at Eastwatch for the time-being). Eventual SanSan.





	1. Chapter 1

 

**• Chapter One •**

Gods, it was fucking cold. The furs of Sandor's cloak tickled his beard as he made his way through the snow-laden grounds of Winterfell. Myriad scents met his nostrils as he strode past the butcher, the miller, the blacksmith. Each worker cast a careful sideways glance at him, eyes customarily lingering on his scarred cheek. _All Northmen have the same dumb fucking face,_ Sandor thought to himself, scowling at the unwanted attention. It was bad enough he had to deal with the horrid Northern weather - having to deal with Northmen only added insult to injury. Sandor was accustomed to being treated with disdain everywhere he went, but the men of Winterfell had a unique and singular bluntness about them. Men here had no qualms about staring, laughing. Mocking his disfigurement in their stupid fucking Northern accents.

_The sooner I leave this shithole, the better._

Sandor had been back in Winterfell nearly a week. He had returned with Jon Snow and his entourage after their ill-advised visit to King's Landing to display the Wight. He was not privy to the war meetings, but he knew that the King in the North was getting ready to mobilize his men, ready to face the threat beyond The Wall. The brief reprieve from the travel had been most welcome, though Sandor wished that it could have taken place somewhere warmer. _I suppose it's cold everywhere now,_ he realized, sighing.

His heavy boots crunched along the frozen ground as he made his way to The Great Hall, hungry after a long day of cutting down trees in the Godswood. He decided he had better make himself useful while he was here - helping add to the firewood stores in preparation for The Long Night seemed a respectable job. Besides, Sandor found that chopping wood was a good way to clear his mind. Certainly, it brought up unfortunate memories of the last time he took up that vocation; but it brought him a curious calm nonetheless. It kept his sword arm strong, and it kept him out of trouble. Spending his days alone in the woods meant he wasn't picking fights with idiotic Northmen.

Sandor raised a blistered, gloved hand to the old oak door of the The Great Hall and pushed it open with a loud creak. It was nearly suppertime, and a few lord-type cunts and their women were milling around the tables, mugs and goblets in hand. Supper was yet to be served, but there were two or three steel trays of bread and potatoes lying about that Sandor helped himself to. He didn't like dining with the rest of them at mealtimes – he hated small talk. Beric would try and talk some shite about the Lord of Light's divine plan for them all, Tormund would spend the entire evening making moon-eyes at a clearly uncomfortable Brienne of Tarth. To be honest, Sandor didn't know the rest of their fucking names. He didn't care to learn. Most nights, he ate before everyone else and retired early. He was never one for making friends, and he preferred it that way. Better to avoid fucking up his social airs and graces by steering clear of the highborn cunts altogether.

Stuffing his face with potato, he cast his good eye around the hall, making sure there was no one there with whom he would be forced to make conversation. Scanning the faces around him, lit by lamps and candlelight, he recognized no one. He settled back into his wooden chair, relieved. He upturned a flagon of ale into his mouth, wiping the dripping remnants from his beard. The Northern swill was not as good as what he'd grown used to in the Capital, but it did its job. He felt his head beginning to swim as he finished off his dinner. Pushing the tray to the centre of the table, he made to stand. As he got to his feet, Sandor heard something a little ways behind him. Across the hall. Laughter. A high-pitched, girlish laughter. Sandor froze, his back to the source of the sound. He felt his good ear turn strangely hot, his breath suddenly coming a little less evenly.

 _"I knew there was no use in trying to talk sense into him"_ – a voice, smooth and sure, coloured with the last few gasps of riotous laughter. Though it had been years since he'd heard it, Sandor would have recognized it anywhere.

_Little Bird._

Sandor's hands gripped the edge of the table, threatening to break the wood in two. His mind was infuriatingly blank. He shot a glance to the doors of the Hall, a good fifty feet away from him. If he made to leave, he might be noticed. He wasn't exactly a man of discreet stature.

_Just go, you ruddy fool. She wouldn't give a pig's shit even if she knew it was you._

For reasons unbeknownst to him, Sandor's legs guided him involuntarily back down to the table. Cursing under his breath, he kept his head down, away from the sound of murmuring across the hall. From what he could tell, Sansa was sat at the Stark's table at the front of the hall, speaking with another young woman. A friend, he guessed, considering the laughter he had heard. They had since lowered their voices, he could no longer make out what they were saying. Sandor strained, trying to discern the matter of their conversation.

_Look at you, eavesdropping like a lowly street whore._

Sandor scowled at himself, but did not move. Keeping his head down, he turned ever so slightly. His long, scraggly hair fell down over his face, concealing it. He peered through it, spying across the room the two women seated at the farthest, highest table.

He knew her immediately. Her back was turned three-quarters away from him, her long auburn hair reaching all the way down to the small of her back. It was longer than when he last saw her. The style was different, no longer tightly braided like the Southern highborn ladies. Like Cersei, when she still had hair. He smirked at that thought. His eyes roamed across Sansa's profile, noting how her face had matured in the years since they had last met - in her chambers during the Battle of the Blackwater. She was so young then, pink faced and terrified. She didn't look terrified now. She spoke confidently, smiling and laughing with her plain-looking friend. Even her posture was different. Sandor glanced down at her neck, her shoulders. He wanted nothing more than to get closer, to see her more clearly.

Sansa turned her body slightly, threatening to look in Sandor's direction. His breath catching in his chest, he tore his face away, forcing himself to look somewhere else. Anywhere else.

_Walk away, dumb cunt._

It had been six days that Sandor had been in Winterfell. Six days that he had spent in the woods, trying to avoid this exact situation. It was only in this very moment - with his breathing erratic and the hairs at the nape of his neck on end - that he realized the true reason for his elective solitude.

He had refused to admit, even to himself, his trepidation at returning to the Stark's home. He had heard tell of Sansa's turn as Lady of Winterfell in Jon's absence. He imagined she must have changed considerably since they had last met. He cursed himself whenever he thought of that night. They had not left on good terms. Though he was drunk as a mule, head pounding and ears ringing from the sights and sounds of battle, he remembered his ugly treatment of her. Shaking her, demanding a song from her pretty lips. His faced turned hot thinking of it. He hated that he had frightened her. Of all the people in Westeros he revelled in frightening, she was not one. He had meant to offer her sanctuary. A means of escape.

But he had cocked it all up, made a mess of things like the dog he was. And he had left her there, in that hellish place. Sandor had committed many sins in his wretched lifetime – slaughtered countless men, women, children – but leaving Sansa Stark alone in King's Landing was his greatest regret.

He had attempted to atone for this sin by way of protecting her sister, Arya. But she had proved more trouble than any bag of silver was worth. He had seen the younger Stark girl during his stay in Winterfell, catching glimpses in the yard of her training with Brienne in the afternoons. He had laughed loudly to himself at the sight, but decided against approaching them. He had done enough to the poor girl. He would be of better use in the woods.

At the top end of the Great Hall, Sansa Stark had stood to leave. Sandor eyed her, his head still turned downward, making certain he stayed scarce. He watched as she left through the archway at the head of the room, his eyes raking down the back of her. She wore a long, simple black dress, far removed from the audacious pastel pinks and greens she wore in the Capital. It conformed to curves he had never noticed before, her hips full, her legs long and elegant.

_Gods. She's a woman now._

His mind still churned lazily with alcohol, and Sandor found his imagination all too quickly ran away from him. He suddenly pictured his large, calloused hands running up and down the length of the girl's smooth form. He sucked in a sharp breath, willing the thoughts to dissipate. Rubbing his eyes firmly, he stood as soon as Sansa had disappeared out of the hall. _Enough of that,_ he thought. He turned on his heels and headed for the large doors behind him, his boots thudding heavily on the stone floor.

He pushed on the doors with more force than was strictly necessary. The creaking echoed in his ears as the frosty night air whipped at Sandor's cheeks. The doors pounded shut behind him. Sandor let out a lungful of air he didn't realize he had been holding – the steam of his hot breath creating a wispy haze in front of his face. Exhausted and ashamed, his mind still reeling, Sandor leant his weight against the oak doors and stared into the cold, dark night.

_Fuck._

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••


	2. Chapter 2

 

**• Chapter Two •**

Sandor barely slept. He found his thoughts plagued by visions of flaming red hair and the sounds of peeling laughter. He had tossed and turned, fitful for hours. When the winter sun began to peek through the heavy drapery, Sandor finally sat upright, seething. He couldn't believe he had allowed himself to be so foolish. He should have stayed away from The Great Hall altogether. It was no place for someone like him. He remembered the way his ears turned hot at the sound of the girl's voice, the way his mouth felt dry even after three flagons of Northern piss ale. He detested feeling so fucking powerless.

He swung his long legs over the side of his bed, placing both feet on the floor. As was often the case in the mornings, Sandor's thigh twinged. It had pained him ever since his fall from the cliff, where the littlest Stark had left him to rot. He could stand the pain – it was the accompanying memories that gave him the most distress. Propped against that rock, bleeding and bruised, he had never felt more helpless, more vulnerable. He loathed to think of it.

Pulling his boots on, he realized these latest unfortunate feelings didn't seem so different. He stood and crossed the room to the window, pulling back the heavy drape. His guest chambers were high up in the eastern wing of The Great Keep – he could see the entire courtyard from the window. A light snow was cascading down onto the ground below, gently dusting everything it touched. Were he a man of a more poetic disposition, he might have called the view pretty.

He was going to train today. The firewood stores could do without him for a day. Sandor hadn't swung a sword in a week – he was getting antsy. Besides, hitting a straw dummy for a few hours might be the perfect cure for the irksome and intrusive thoughts that had kept him up all night. Reaching for his cloak, Sandor swung open his chamber door, determined to take his frustrations out on _something._

••••••••••

Little bits of straw floated down to the snowy ground as Sandor thwacked the ever-loving daylight out of the training dummy. It was only a blunt sword, but the effort made him feel marginally better. As was his custom, he pictured his brother's face over that of the dummy's. It always made him hit harder. He punctuated every blow with a curse under his breath.

 _"Stupid. Fucking. Cunt."_ He swung again, again, again. The dummy, now rapidly losing its padding, was beginning to look rather sad and deflated.

Sandor paused, lowering the sword. His breath came fast and heavy, beads of sweat falling off of him and melting into the snow at his feet. He'd been at it for hours now. The sleepless night and missed meals were starting to catch up with him. Now that most of his frustration had dissipated, he was starting to feel somewhat weak and dizzy. Wiping the damp hair from his eyes, Sandor dropped the sword and filled his lungs with air. He cast his eyes upward at the cloudy, darkening sky. The sun disappeared early these days. Not much daylight to make use of.

He wouldn't eat in the Great Hall tonight. He'd stop by the kitchens on his way back to his chambers. _Much safer that way._ He'd be damned before he'd make a fool of himself again, the way he did the evening previous. The Hound was a warrior feared across Westeros – he wasn't going to let a little girl humiliate him. Again.

Re-fastening his cloak around his shoulders, Sandor started up the wooden steps to the terrace that led back to The Great Keep. The chill of the air around him drew attention to the quickly cooling sweat on his face, making him feel even colder than he already was. Starved and tired, Sandor was barely looking where he was going. He hadn't noticed another person standing on the terrace, about twenty feet away from him. They were facing away, leaning on the balustrade. As if they had just been watching him train. The figure wore a hooded cloak, protecting their face against the cold breeze.

Sandor finally glanced up, slowing his pace as he noticed the unexpected presence. He came to an abrupt halt as the figure let down the hood of their cloak, turning to face him. A length of fiery hair tumbled out, framing a pale, youthful face.

_Sansa._

She wore a simple grey gown and a heavy, navy blue cloak. Her hair was in a single plait that trailed over her left shoulder. Sandor chewed at the inside of his mouth. The North suited her.

They stared at one another across the length of the terrace. Sandor focused on keeping his breath even, conscious that she would be able to see it in the winter air between them. His face betrayed nothing - years of standing at the sides of cunt kings and queens had taught him to keep his features measured. He thanked them for it now. He tried to read her expression, remembering how easy it had once been to guess at her thoughts. No longer. Her porcelain face was as smooth and emotionless as the dolls she used to fuss over. Her eyes travelled from his face, down to his boots and back up again. He wondered what she was searching for.

_Maybe she heard about my run in with Brienne and is wondering if I've still got all my limbs._

"Sandor."

Her voice, soft, pierced through his inner monologue. He blinked at her. She had used his name. He felt his face falter, a minute twitch of his mouth. He composed his features quickly, hoping she hadn't noticed. Her face had softened too - she was looking at him with... What was it? Certainly not the terror he had grown so accustomed to seeing from her. Not hatred. Not annoyance. Something else. He cleared his throat.

"Lady Stark."

He winced internally. _Too formal._ He felt like a fucking fool. In truth, he realized he had no idea how to speak to the girl. He'd not seen her in years, and the last time they spoke he had terrified her. He sniffed, uncomfortable. He'd never had trouble speaking his mind before, why did this girl give him so much pause?

Sansa took a step closer. Sandor raised his chin, straightening up to his full height. He looked down at her, wondering what in the Seven Hells she must be thinking. He could feel his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides.

_Go. She doesn't want to see you. Just walk away._

Sandor bowed his head, making to turn and leave. Before he could, Sansa spoke.

"I heard you had come with my brother. I thought perhaps you had left again for the South… Then I saw you in the Hall. Last night."

 _She saw me?_ He felt his face grow uncomfortably warm. She must have noticed him at supper, cowering in the corner like a ruddy dormouse. For a brief second, Sandor felt like flinging himself off of the edge of the terrace into a snowdrift below.

He simply nodded once in response, curt. His tongue felt stiff and useless in his mouth. He hated feeling like this. He usually had a sharp word for every situation. Not now.

"Thought I'd keep useful, where I can. Your brother's a good man."

Sansa gave a small smile. Sandor stared at her mouth a little longer than he meant to.

"Not like you to say a nice thing like that." She was smiling wider now, eyeing him inquisitively.

Sandor bristled. Was she playing with him? He couldn't believe she'd feel enough at ease around him to make jokes. She had trembled at the sight of him, once. Where was that fear now?

"I imagine we've both changed, some." He replied gruffly.

Sandor peered out over the balustrade, strangely unwilling to make eye contact with the girl. He could feel her icy blue eyes staring at him. Sizing him up, somehow. He couldn't figure out what she wanted, and it infuriated him.

Suddenly stifling a yawn, Sandor realized just how exhausted he was. He wanted nothing more than to fall into his bed and think about something else. Something other than those blue eyes, her pink lips.

_Or think very hard about them._

"You've had a tiring day, ser. I won't keep you any longer."

"I'm no ser."

At this, Sansa flashed an unexpected grin, baring her perfect teeth. Sandor momentarily forgot to breathe. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen her smile like that before.

"You're right. I should remember. You only told me a half-dozen times when we were in King's Landing."

Sandor attempted to return her smile, but could feel it disfiguring into a kind of strained-looking wince across his ruined face. His face slackened, defeated. A moment of silence passed. Sansa was still watching him. His legs were tensed, ready to turn tail and flee from this fucking ridiculous situation he had somehow found himself in. Letting another second pass, Sandor decided it was now within the guidelines of courtesy to leave. Turning on his heel, he began back the way he had come. Before he had gotten more than three steps, Sansa's voice interrupted him.

"If it's all the same to you, Sandor-"

She used his name again. It was just as surprising as the first time. There was a time when Sandor wasn't even sure if she knew his real name – now here she was, using it in casual speech as if they were old friends. He understood no part of it, least of all the way his name seemed to sound so agreeable coming from her lips.

Sandor realized that he had stopped dead in his tracks, his back still facing her. He whipped around, his face questioning. She was still probing him with her eyes, though she looked slightly flustered now. He raised his intact eyebrow, waiting for her next words.

"If it's all the same, I'd like to pay you a visit tomorrow. In the Godswood."

Sandor stared. _Why is she doing this?_

"Not much for you to see there." He replied. His voice came out more strained than he intended, betraying his utter confusion. Sansa's mouth turned down slightly at the corners. She pressed further.

"It's been years since we've seen one another. I hope you will humour me with a real conversation. I know you don't much like it."

Sandor continued to stare. He had no good reason to tell her no, save for the fact that he was terrified of making a fucking goat's arse out of himself. He couldn't tell her that, of course. He simply nodded – one quick, succinct ducking of his chin.

Deciding that that was about all he could bear of this excruciating interaction, Sandor turned once more. He strode along the wooden terrace faster than he needed to, letting his long legs carry him away from Sansa before she could say anything else.

He had made his way back to his guest chambers before he had even registered how much time had passed. His mind was swimming. Pushing the door open, the musty stench of the seldom-used room drifted across his face. He kicked off his boots with two loud thuds, collapsing onto the sheepskin atop his bed. Sandor ran a hand over his eyes, staring blankly at the stone ceiling. He blinked slowly, the events of the last few minutes cycling relentlessly through his mind. His stomach grumbled loudly and he cursed.

_What the fuck was that about?_

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••


	3. Chapter 3

**• Chapter Three •**

_The bear’s jaw snapped open and closed, pieces of rotting flesh sent flying. It lunged at Sandor; he could smell its foul, dead breath. He turned to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. Suddenly, the great beast’s body went up in flames. Sandor recoiled from the heat, unable to get away. The bear’s fiery mouth enveloped him._

_Darkness._  
  
••••••••••••

_If I never see another fucking log again, it’ll be too soon._

Sandor was in a dreadful mood. He chopped at the fallen tree in front of him with overwhelming force – causing it to splinter and crack into tiny pieces. Not even the woods could soothe him today. After his run in with _her_ yesterday, Sandor was on edge. Every slight noise caused him to jump; he would whip around and search the trees for any sign of another person’s presence, waiting to catch a glimpse of fiery hair. He had no clue what she had planned, no idea why she would request a meeting. Out here. With no one else around.

_A precarious position for a little bird to place herself in._

Sandor had managed a better night’s sleep, though he was plagued by bad dreams. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a dream that didn’t involve either dead men or rotted, flaming bears. It was all he could think about these days. Well, almost. Sandor supposed a perplexing girl with mysterious motives was an easier crisis to deal with than the quickly-approaching end of the world.

He didn’t have to like it, though.

Arranging his newly cut logs in a pile at his feet, Sandor considered all the things he might say to Sansa, if she ever decided to make an appearance.

_Let me tell you about the time your little sister left me to die at the bottom of a cliff._

_I heard of your marriage to the Imp. Is it true what they say about dwarf cocks?_

_No, I’m afraid the years haven’t made me any less ugly. They’ve been kind to you, though._

Sandor cursed and threw a log down, causing the whole pile to topple over. Was that the best he could do? Petty whinging and lecherous remarks? Surely he had something of substance to say. The Lady of Winterfell would demand substance.

_The dead men are coming. Have you made peace with your Gods, Little Bird?_

Just then, Sandor heard the sound of twigs snapping underfoot. He froze, holding his breath. Much like his dream the night before, he felt completely unable to move. He heard the rustling grow closer until he could hear it mere feet away. Sandor’s mind was blank. He couldn’t will a single thought into his head – he could only listen to the sounds behind him. It was only her voice that jolted him back into the realm of the living.

“I wasn’t sure which part of the Godswood I’d find you in.”

Sandor resumed breathing. He prayed to Gods he didn’t quite believe in that his voice would not betray his nerves.

“You found me all the same.”

Finally, he turned around to meet her. She was sitting, perched on one of the fallen trees he had yet to start hacking at. She wore another grey dress, with the same cloak as yesterday. _Seems she favours dark colours now_ , Sandor noted. She looked up at him with a composed expression, saying nothing. Was she goading him? He stared back at her. Moments passed. _Fine,_ he thought. _One of us has to say something._

“I’m surprised the King in the North would allow his pretty sister to wander the Godswood alone. Especially knowing who she’d find in it.” He watched her face for a reaction, half-expecting she’d finally realize the situation she’d put herself in. Alone in the woods with a monster.

Her face didn’t falter.

“You were a great asset to Jon on his expedition. I am sure he trusts you as much as any of his men.”

He raised his eyebrow at her. “No place for me in the war meetings, though.”

“It’s a cramped room,” she replied, smirking. “Besides, you’ve shown no interest. You spend all your time out here."

_Trying to get away from you._

Sandor resumed stacking his log pile, attempting to look busy. He hoped perhaps she’d take the hint and leave. Of course, he had never been so lucky.

“I want to know what’s happened to you, Sandor.” She gazed at him more intently. “Since we last met.”

He peered up from his logs. She was watching on contentedly, awaiting his answer. Sandor rose to his full height and stared down at her. He must have looked imposing, but she did not flinch.

“It’s not a happy story.”

“None of us have happy stories.” Sansa rose to her feet, matching him. She was taller than he remembered, though he still surpassed her by more than a foot. _Suppose she looks taller when she’s not cowering._

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Sandor searched the girl’s face, trying once again to find that old fear he had known so well back in King’s Landing. He found nothing. In front of him now was a woman who was unafraid. This made Sandor quietly uneasy.

_What has she seen, if I no longer frighten her?_

Sandor stepped past her to sit where she had been on the fallen tree. He gestured to the opposite end of the log, an invitation. She paused, before gathering her cloak and sitting down next to him. Sandor stared forward, considering.

“I suppose your sister will have told you all about our little tour of the countryside.” He began.

“I want to hear your telling of it. I know Arya has a tendency to... Exaggerate.”

Sandor laughed, a short and sharp sound. He picked up a nearby stick and began drawing aimlessly in the snow.

“Whatever she or the big bitch-“ he stopped himself - “Brienne have to say about it, I was only trying to protect her. I can see how it looked. But I was all she had out there. She would have gotten herself killed. How could I know the Tarth bitch meant what she said about some fucking oath she swore to a dead woman? I didn’t know her. Couldn’t trust her.”

Sansa stared forward, mimicking his position. “I hear she left you half-dead.”

Sandor winced. “Don’t much like thinking about that part.”

“I’d like to know.”

He sighed. “Aye. Bleeding to death under a cliff. Wasn’t pretty. I asked your sister to end it, but she stole my silver and fucked off. Can’t say I blame her.”

“That sounds like Arya.”

They sat for a moment. Sansa rolled the material of her cloak between her long fingers. Sandor watched from the corner of his eye. She had pretty hands.

“And?” She prompted. “What then?”

“And then I was rescued by a priest-type and his followers. They were good people.”

Sandor’s hand paused, still holding the stick. He gazed down at it.

“But they died. Like everyone else.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do it.”

Sandor turned his body to face her, dropping the stick at his side.

“Then the fucking Brotherhood Without Banners found me, and you know the rest of the story. Now I’m here.”

“Now you’re here.”

Sandor took a deep breath, preparing for the question he had been waiting to ask.

“Does my being in Winterfell bother you?” He stared forward again, afraid of what her face might tell him.

She remained silent beside him for what felt like an age. Sandor almost told her to forget he ever asked, before she finally spoke.

“I’m happy you’re here.”

Sandor tensed. Had he heard that right? He stood, suddenly uncomfortable at how close he was to her. He walked several paces before turning and looking at her. He felt strangely angry.

“That night, during the Battle of the Blackwater. You remember?” He stared her down. He wanted to make her see.

Her brow furrowed slightly. _There it is,_ he thought. _Remember what I am._

“You were drunk. You wanted me to sing for you.” She spoke quietly now.

Sandor felt a lump form in his throat. He knew he had to talk sense into her, whether he enjoyed it or not.

“That wasn’t the only thing I wanted from you.” He made sure to keep his voice even. Menacing.

_Run away from me, girl. Save yourself the trouble._

He expected her to balk at his comment, to blush or run away or scold him for being crude. She did none of this. She merely peered up at him from under her cloak, her face blank.

“No.” She said. “You wanted to take me. To fuck me bloody.”

Sandor stiffened, taken aback. He’d never imagined he’d hear anything like that from her mouth. He swallowed as he realized why the words sounded familiar. _Gods. I said that._

“At least, that’s what you told Arya.”

Sansa stood once more, advancing on him. Sandor felt very small all of a sudden. He hadn’t truly meant what he said, barely conscious at the foot of that cliff. He only meant to give the little Stark a reason to shove that needle-blade through his heart. How could he convince Sansa of that? Perhaps he ought not try.

_Better she be disgusted by me. Safer._

He stayed silent, his eyes trained on his boots.

“Sandor. Look at me.” She was much closer than he anticipated. He glanced up. She was staring intently at him, her eyes piercing his. She wasn’t afraid. Suddenly, her expression softened.

“You won’t hurt me.”

Sandor shut his eyes, unable to hold her gaze any longer. He couldn’t understand why she was still showing him kindness. She should have turned and walked away from him long before now. And yet, here she was, looking at him with… _Warmth?_ Treating him like something other than a vicious dog. She had used the same words as the night they last saw one another - she wanted him to know that she remembered. His breathing was ragged, composure impossibly far from his grasp.

After some time, he opened his eyes.

“No Little Bird, I won’t hurt you.”  
  
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys. I'm not big on author's notes, but I will say a huge thanks for the wonderfully positive feedback I've had so far. Please don't expect updates as quickly as these first three have been - but I will endeavour to get them done as soon as I can. For those playing at home, the intent is for this fic to be about ten to fifteen chapters long, depending on how it goes. I may have to add more warnings for later chapters. In the meantime, thanks again! - Becca


	4. Chapter 4

**• Chapter Four •**

  
  
“Tomorrow morning we march on the Wall. The dead are getting closer. There’s no more time to sit around and discuss it.”

Jon Snow stood at the front of the stone hall, clad in black leather and furs. His brothers and sisters sat either side, as well as the blonde-haired dragon queen. They all wore the same stern expression - an unspoken challenge to the dozens of huddled Northmen in their company. None dared meet it.

Sandor stood at the back of the hall, shoulder to shoulder with some grizzly, smelly fuckers he’d never seen before in his life. Jon Snow had summoned all Lords and commanders to meet and discuss the mobilization of armies north. Sandor would have rather preferred to be elsewhere, but it seemed this meeting was not optional. Sandor suppressed a chill, quickly realizing he’d have to face those rotting cunts again in the very near future.  
  
The hall was cold and cramped, there were far more men than the stone walls could comfortably house. Sandor was growing irritated, resenting his inability to move his arms and legs without knocking against someone. Ahead of him, Northmen and wildlings alike were debating some issue or another, their voices loud and heated. Sandor hadn’t really cared to listen. Strategy had never particularly interested him – he’d killed hundreds of men just fine without it.

He let his gaze drift around the room at the collection of lords and soldiers; all of them shared the same uncertain and fearful look in their eyes. Sandor wondered if his own face betrayed similar sentiments.  
  
_Dumb fuckers, the lot of us. Standing here agreeing to march to our deaths._  
  
He was ready. Of course he was. Sandor had been prepared for death his entire life. He had never quite pictured it being at the hands of some decaying, dead shit - but he supposed it was as good a way to die as any. _Shame I couldn’t get to my cunt brother first,_ he thought, rueful.  
  
Sandor cast his eyes forward to the row of Starks, to Jon Snow and the recent addition of the blonde Targaryen. Her presence in Winterfell had caused much antagonism, as expected. Sandor had overheard angry mutterings in the courtyard – one evening was even accosted by a burly, drunken guardsman, being spurred on by his equally inebriated friends.

_“Oi, dog! I heard you was with the King in the North and the dragon bitch up beyond the Wall. Does her cunt have scales too?”_

Sandor watched the white-haired beauty next to Jon – she was speaking, but he could not hear her from the back of the hall. The room had turned silent in response. Sandor guessed that she had reminded them all of the terrifying existence of her two beloved dragons. _No arguing with that_. 

His eyes flitted across to the left, settling on the mass of flaming hair that so strikingly contrasted with the Targaryen’s blonde locks. Sansa Stark gazed forward, her eyes blank. She seemed to be elsewhere. Sandor found himself staring, wondering – not for the first time - what the girl could be thinking of.

Muttering erupted from around Sandor, jolting him out of his thoughts. It seemed the meeting had been dismissed, judging from the unceremonious pushing and shoving that had just commenced around him. Groaning as misplaced elbows and shoulders landed against his chest and stomach, Sandor turned and began pushing his way out. Luckily, standing at the back of the hall meant he was close to the archway. His size and strength also meant that fighting through a crowd was easy. If someone took issue with his shoving, they need only take one look at Sandor to realize it was not a fight worth picking.

He had just about made it to the door when he felt a hand on his arm. He would have shrugged it off as just another pushy Lord and ignored it – but it was followed by the sound of his name.

“Clegane.”

Sandor turned, as much as the crowd would allow. Jon Snow was standing before him, staring intently. The throng began diverting around the two of them, no soldier wanting to give their Lord Commander a reason to remember their face.  Sandor frowned at the little man, standing a good two heads below him. His stature aside, Jon had an imposing presence.

_What the fuck does he want with me?_

The men dispersed quickly – leaving the two of them alone in the hall. Sandor felt uneasy. His mind raced, trying to come up with the reason he was about to be reprimanded. He _had_ taken a day off of chopping wood… But surely the King in the North had bigger worries than that. Was it the near-brawl he had with some stupid drunk Northman last night? That also seemed too trivial. He’d kept his head low since he’d been in Winterfell, except…

_Oh, fuck._

“I wanted to talk to you about my sister.”

Sandor made sure to keep his face blank, though he could feel his pulse skip. He should have been smarter. Of course it was foolish to speak to a Lady alone in a fucking forest. _Especially when her brother can cut my fucking head off._

“I didn’t mean to bother the Little Bird.” Gods, he sounded like a kicked dog. What was it about the girl that made him so feeble?

Jon’s stare didn’t falter, though it seemed to soften slightly.

“I’ve heard quite the opposite. She speaks very highly of you.”

Sandor’s brow furrowed in response. He cast his gaze towards one of the stone pillars, suddenly strangely embarrassed.

“I know you were kind to her when she was in King’s Landing,” he continued. “She seems to trust you.”

Sandor’s face felt uncomfortably hot. He wondered if he could find an excuse to leave this conversation before anything else was said. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jon persisted.

“You won’t be marching with us tomorrow.”

Sandor’s eyes snapped back to meet Jon’s. So he _was_ being punished.

“You need me. I’ve seen them. I’m much better use to you out there.”

The corner of Jon’s mouth twitched. Sandor figured that was as close to a smile as the King in the North got. It made him very uneasy.

“You’ll be of better use to me here, in Winterfell. If the dead breach our lines, we need good men here to secure our battlements.”

“If the dead breach your lines, the rest of us are fucked.”

Jon’s smile widened.

“It’s not my only use for you here. Our wood stores are plenty thanks to you, and for that I am grateful. But Sansa needs protection while I’m gone. She has Brienne, but I’d feel better knowing you were here too.”

Sandor blinked. He wasn’t sure he was hearing correctly. The idea of being so close to the Stark girl was simultaneously terrifying and… Something else. His skin prickled at the thought.

“Brienne is a good fighter. She doesn’t need me.”

The two men stared at one another. Jon looked as though he was fighting some kind of internal conflict. _Though_ , Sandor supposed, _he looks like that most of the time_.

“She asked me not to say,” Jon sighed. “But Sansa requested your services herself.”

Sansa? Requested? Sandor didn’t understand a fucking thing. _Why would she ask for me?_ His head felt like it was about to start spinning.

“Within Winterfell's walls, Brienne can accompany her. But you will go with her any time she visits the Godswood. And, from now on, you are to station yourself outside Sansa’s chambers come nightfall. She…” Jon paused, frowning, as if trying to find the right words. “She has nightmares. It helps her to know she’s guarded.”

Sandor found it very hard to believe that the strong-headed Little Bird he had witnessed in the past few days could possibly frighten so easily. Regardless, he nodded, accepting his charge. It didn't seem clever to argue. Jon nodded once in response.

“Thank you, Clegane. My sister trusts you, so I trust you.” Jon’s dark eyes pierced Sandor’s, searching.

“I’ll keep her safe.”

_As safe as I can with an army of dead men knocking at her door._

Jon nodded, satisfied. He turned to leave, before stopping himself. He cast one last glance back at Sandor.

“If we come back from this…” His voice was lower now.  
  
“I find out you’ve hurt my sister, I take your head.”

 ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. Very sorry for the delay. Just a short set-up chapter this time. Life punched me in the face these last couple of weeks. Hope you can understand. Should be easier for me to get chapters up from now on, though!


	5. Chapter 5

**• Chapter Five •**

_Sandor’s boots thudded against the flat ice as he ran, his heart pumping. He could hear the snarls and cries of the dead behind him. His breath came quickly, visible in front of him. He dared not turn around. Dared not slow down. He’d be dead if he did. Suddenly, the ice beneath him began to crack. The sound of it echoed across the frozen valley. Before Sandor realized what was happening, the ground beneath him gave out and he tumbled down, down, down._

_Darkness._

_•••••••••••••••_

Sandor awoke with a start. He should be used to the nightmares by now, but they always had him waking sodden with sweat. He reached up and wiped the moisture from his face, groaning.

_What I’d give for one dreamless night._

He glanced up at the ceiling, eyes bleary. His mind had not yet caught up with the rest of him. In an attempt to calm himself, Sandor focused on the feeling of the warm furs around him, the heat from Winterfell’s springs keeping his chambers comfortable. He forced his breath to slow and deepen.

As his senses began to return, he realized he could feel his manhood pressing against the bedding. He sighed. Most mornings, Sandor would ignore the sensation. It was a part of him he tried not to think about, when he could. In King’s Landing he could take a whore whenever he liked, but times were different now. _Hard to get off with dead fuckers breathing down your neck._

It was a bizarre and inexplicable change he had observed in himself. The hunger was still there - dull in his belly - but he could never quite bring himself to act upon it. It felt as though something inside of him had been blunted. He would leer at the barmaids of Winterfell, staring down the front of their corsets when they’d bend over, but it was never as it once was. With one exception.

Sandor passed a lazy hand over the bedclothes, down his front. He shut his eyes, conjuring an image of fiery red hair. A thin, tall frame, leaning over a balustrade. Her hair tumbled over her shoulder, framing a perfect face.

It was only thoughts of Sansa Stark that seemed to be able to rekindle that old fire within him. Others would no longer do. It was a curious thing, and it puzzled Sandor to think too long on it. As a result, he rarely touched himself. It felt wrong, somehow. Like he’d be tarnishing something shining and pure if he were to sully it with his lustful thoughts. He had never been prudish – Sandor would make himself cum over thoughts of any woman he felt like, once. This change brought him no small amount of disquiet.

He slowed his hand, reluctant to excite himself any further. Frustrated, he sat up.

All at once, Sandor’s conversation with Jon Snow the evening previous came flooding back to him. He sucked in a sharp breath, remembering that today was the day the Northern armies began their march to meet the dead. It was also the first day of his new duty – to guard Sansa Stark.

Sandor didn’t know which was more terrifying.

_•••••••••••••••_

“She doesn’t need you today.”

Sandor glanced up from his bowl of stew. Towering above him was a mess of blonde hair and a stern, angular face. He grunted in response.

“She tell you that herself?”

Brienne smirked. Or perhaps it was a sneer. Sandor could never quite work out which.

“Lady Stark will not be leaving the grounds of Winterfell today. She will be meeting with the ladies of the court this morning, followed by several hours of record keeping and letter writing.”

“Sounds fucking fascinating.” Sandor took another sip of his stew.  

Brienne was definitely sneering now.

“The Lady of Winterfell has many duties. Not all of them are glamorous. I hope you won’t be too disappointed, _ser.”_  The tall woman’s lip curled on the final word.

Sandor glanced back up. Her ire took him by surprise. He had assumed they were on good terms since their conversation in King’s Landing. He stood, rising to meet her gaze. It was always a little strange having someone match his height. The fact that it was a woman was even stranger. Sandor never quite knew what to make of Brienne of Tarth.

“And here I thought you were starting to like me. Don’t look too pleased to see me now.” He stared into her icy blue eyes, a challenge. She didn’t blink.

“And I thought you wanted to look out for Sansa’s best interests.”

“Aye.”

“So why did you request a duty that requires you to follow the poor girl around like a lost dog? She has been more than satisfied with me as her guard. She doesn’t need you.”

Sandor’s jaw tightened. He felt his face turn hot. He wasn’t sure how to respond – Hells, he didn’t even fully understand the situation himself.

“Didn’t request it. Was given to me.”

Brienne’s eyes narrowed.

“I can’t think of a single reason Jon Snow would entrust his sister’s safety with a lecherous brute. Least of all why he would let you stand guard outside her chambers. It makes me sick to think of it.”

Sandor shut his eyes, attempting to quell the rage building inside him. It would not do to punch a woman in the middle of the Great Hall. Even if that woman was Brienne of Fucking Tarth.

“I can think of one. The Lady asked for me herself.”

Brienne stared. She was silent for several moments.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Ask her yourself.”

“Perhaps I will.”

“Alright then.”

Sandor sat back down with a loud thump, pointedly picking up his bowl and slurping from it. He could feel Brienne’s eyes boring into the back of his head. He didn’t care. After some time, he heard her turn and leave. He let out a long breath, sinking into his seat.

He was relieved. Sandor had been feeling no small amount of trepidation at the prospect of having to shadow Sansa all day, especially given the amorous thoughts he awoke to. That trepidation doubled when he remembered that he was still expected at her chamber door come nightfall.

 _The big bitch was right. No place for me, lurking outside a Lady’s chambers_.

In another life, that idea would have excited him. Not now. He had no desire to make the Little Bird uneasy. She had asked for him for a reason, he didn’t want to squander whatever trust she had decided to place in him - even if that trust mystified him.

Sandor glanced out the hall’s large window; it was still early in the day. Plenty of time before he had to face her. He thought he might go wander the woods and clear his head.

One way or another, Sandor needed answers.

_•••••••••••••••_

The cobblestone wall was hard at Sandor’s back as he leant against it, one leg crossed over the other. He had reported dutifully to Lady Stark’s chambers as soon as the sun had gone down, though he had no idea what time she typically retired. He had been standing there for almost an hour, flinching at every set of footsteps he heard. He was waiting for someone to question him – ask what in Seven Hells a man like him was doing in this part of the Keep. He wasn’t sure he had an answer.

No one bothered him. He yawned, absentmindedly rolling the hilt of his sword between his fingers. He was perfectly used to guard duty – he did it nearly every night in King’s Landing. But it was usually with another guard, and they would at least be able to make conversation if the night was a particularly long one. Sandor fucking hated small talk, but it passed the time quicker. Here, he had nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company.

He only wished he had better things to think about.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded from Sandor’s left. He gazed down the dark passageway, squinting to make out the shape of their owner. Before they had come close enough to be lit by the lantern at Sandor’s feet, they stopped still. Sandor stared, his eyes straining.

“Good evening, Sandor.”

If there hadn’t been a wall behind him, Sandor might have stumbled. He hadn’t expected her so early. He rushed to compose his features, grateful that the lantern provided only rudimentary light in the dim corridor. He straightened up to his full height.

“A Lady has no place in the shadows.”

Slowly, Sansa stepped forward. Her face was bathed in the yellow glow of the weak flame. Sandor studied her. She looked tired.

“I apologize. It’s good of you to be here so early.” Her voice came out low, quiet. It gave Sandor pause.

“Just doing what I’m told.”

Sansa nodded. They stood in silence for a while. After a time, she spoke again.

“It’s hard to focus on keeping court while Jon’s away. Fighting an enemy I can scarcely even conceive of. All my duties seemed so trivial today.”

Sandor blinked, taken aback at her sudden desire to share her concerns. He felt out of his depth.

“If your brother comes back, there ought to be a Winterfell for him to come back to.”

Sansa looked up at him; her eyes were near bloodshot. He wasn’t sure she had been listening. He watched her lips tighten into a thin line.  

“Goodnight, Sandor. Thank you for your service.”

She moved to pass him, but Sandor stayed put – blocking her from entering her chamber. The girl barely reacted. She stared forward, eyes at the height of his chest. _Why isn’t she fighting me?_

Sandor swallowed. He needed an answer from her. Tonight. He wouldn’t allow it to keep eating away at him. He looked down at the girl, almost swaying on her feet.

“Why’d you ask for me?”

Sansa froze, her eyes regaining focus. She cast a glance up at him, before quickly looking away.

“I don’t know what you mean.” She was mumbling. _Was she embarrassed?_

“Your brother told me. You asked for me especially.”

The Little Bird didn’t move. Her eyes were cast down at the stone floor, studying it. She seemed to be trying very hard not to betray her true thoughts. _She’s gotten better at lying,_ Sandor realized, frustrated. He wasn’t sure why she was suddenly so timid - he thought he’d seen the last of that in King’s Landing. The Sansa Stark he’d witnessed in the last week was headstrong and confident, unafraid to speak her mind.  
  
_Not now… Why?_

“If it’s all the same, I’ve had a tiring day. I bid you a good night.” Before Sandor had a chance to respond, Sansa pushed past him, gathered her frock and disappeared into her chambers. The door shut with a thud; the sound echoing in Sandor’s ears.

_•••••••••••••••_

It was well into the night. Sandor was sitting on a low stone column opposite Sansa’s chamber door, his head hanging between his knees. His eyes were heavy, though he knew it would not do to fall asleep. He had been replaying the conversation of several hours ago over and over in his mind. Sansa had looked exhausted. She was clearly worried about her brother, but was that all? Sandor had never been very good at guessing the thoughts of others. He had never cared to, until now. He almost didn’t mind that she hadn’t given him an answer to his question. His concern was stronger than his curiosity.

Sandor ran his hands over his face, attempting to wake himself up.  He knew he’d have to start sleeping through the day if he was going to keep this up. Sandor was just about to start reciting the words of some prayer or another that he had learnt from The Brotherhood to keep himself awake – when he heard it.

Screaming. From behind the wooden door in front of him. Before he knew what was happening, Sandor leapt to his feet.

_Sansa._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Descriptions of Ramsay's treatment of Sansa. It gets a little graphic, but not too terrible. Read at own discretion. 
> 
> P.S. Apologies for the wait. I've been moving house, so things have been a little hectic. Hope you guys enjoy!

**• Chapter Six •**

 

_Ramsay Bolton sneered, his eyes cast downwards at the girl. Sansa’s knees ached – she had been kneeling on them for what felt like hours. She was not allowed to stand up. He’d hit her if she did. The cobblestones of her Lord husband’s chamber floor were cold and hard. She knew, because he often made her sleep on them. She peered up at him, her eyes blank. He met her gaze with a twisted grin._

_“There’s a good girl. Remember your place.”_

_He struck her once across the face. She flinched, though the force of it was not overwhelming. He was only toying with her tonight. Sansa prayed that Ramsay remained in good humour; else she receive a more severe beating._

_He ran a finger across her bottom lip, caressing it. Sansa was more disturbed by this than the blow. She understood his meaning. Ramsay’s hands moved to his belt, slowly unfastening it. Sansa felt tears well as she listened to him chuckle._

_“My pretty wife. I’m going to make you choke on it.”_

Sansa sat bolt upright, her head spinning. She screamed.

 

_••••••••••••••_

 

Sandor pushed at the door with enough force to all but clear it off its hinges. The girl’s chambers were dark. He squinted as his eyes adjusted. He could make out a faint silhouette in the far corner of the room, behind a translucent bed canopy. He made his way toward it, his pace slowing. He didn’t want to frighten her any further.

“Little Bird.” He whispered.

Sansa turned towards him. Sandor’s eyes had finally adjusted; he could make out her features in the dim light. Her cheeks were stained with tears. As Sandor crept closer, he realized she was trembling. She stared blankly, her eyes wet and heavy. With one hand, he gently pulled the bed curtain aside. He could hear her ragged breathing.

“You cried out.”

Sansa’s eyes regained focus as they fixed themselves on the man before her. She swallowed hard.

“I apologize for the disturbance.” Her voice was barely whisper.

“Fuck niceties,” Sandor growled. “What’s got you so terrified?”

He instantly regretted his tone. The last thing the poor girl needed was a hostile visitor in her chambers. Sansa stared at her hands, fidgeting in her lap. Sandor let his eyes sweep over her – she was wearing a silken white slip, with a rather plunging neckline. He cursed himself for letting his eyes wander.

_Now is not the time._

Sansa sighed, a long and weighty breath.

“Will you sit, Sandor?” She gestured to the edge of the bed.

Sandor bristled. Sitting on a lady’s bed seemed like a particularly improper thing to do. If someone else had been roused by the girl’s scream and entered to find him here... He could only guess as to what it might look like. Brienne of Tarth did not need any more fuel for her hateful fire.

He opened his mouth to refuse, but Sansa frowned. She looked so miserable. Sandor could not bring himself to tell her no. Instead, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed - it dipped considerably under his weight. He was so close to her now. It was an uncomfortably intimate setting. Sandor did his best to focus on the girl’s obvious distress, rather than her sleepwear.

“I had a bad dream.” She began, her voice a little louder now.

“Have one of those every night. Fucking undead polar bears.”

He had hoped to lighten the mood, but Sansa’s face remained grim. He exhaled, resigning himself to simply listen.

“Tell me.”

Sansa winced. It was a long time before she spoke again.

“You must have heard of my marriage to Ramsay Bolton.” She gazed at him questioningly. Sandor shook his head.

“Didn’t hear too much gossip where I ended up. Last I knew you’d been married off to the Imp.”  Sandor didn’t like to imagine that wedding night. He rarely admitted it to himself, but he was painfully jealous of Tyrion. It wasn’t a line of thinking he allowed himself to indulge very often. Now, to hear of a second wedding?

_Seems like there’s a whole list of fuckers I’d rather not think about._

“I was in Littlefinger’s care for some time – he arranged the wedding. He thought it would better our chances of getting Winterfell back. What he didn’t realize...” She paused, trying to find the words. She looked even paler than usual.

Sandor’s brow furrowed. He didn’t enjoy seeing her in so much misery, though he was uncertain as to its source.

“Ramsay was not well known. The Bolton house is famous for its cruelty, but he...” She swallowed again. “He was so much worse.”

Sansa’s hands gripped at her bed sheet. Sandor thought he could see the tears returning in her eyes. His own hands twitched, longing to reach out to her. Knowing she would not welcome his touch, he kept them at his sides.

“Think of all the terrible things you’ve ever heard of being done to young maidens.” Her voice was uneven again. “All the things your Kingsguard friends must talk about in the tavern late into the night. The things you do to whores.”

Sandor stiffened. He did not like where this was going. Sansa pulled the bed sheet up to dab at her wet eyes, before continuing.

“Ramsay did it all to me.” She sniffed. “That and more. I don’t even think you could imagine.”

“I’ve got a good imagination.” Sandor’s voice was low. His mind was strangely, utterly silent.

Sansa looked up, meeting his gaze for the first time in some minutes. Sandor stared back, unafraid. They sat like that for a moment, unmoving.

_You can tell me your twisted secrets, Little Bird. They’re safe with me._

Slowly, Sansa nodded.

“He would play games with me. He’d tell me a riddle, and if I got it wrong... He’d cut me. See?”

Sansa extended her bare arm towards Sandor. He hadn’t noticed before – but as the moonlight from the window poured onto her white skin, he could make out scars. Dozens of them, all over her arm. Sandor inhaled sharply, rising to his feet.

“Where do I find him?” He said, a little too loudly for the time of night. Sansa gave a minute smile.

“Never mind that. Please.” She ran her hand over the edge of the bed where Sandor had been sitting.

He continued to stand, clenching his hands into fists. He couldn’t stop himself from staring at her scarred body. Sandor realized now that they didn’t stop at her arms. She had a long, thick marking that started at her collarbone and disappeared under the pale silk of her slip towards her ribs. Through gritted teeth, he wondered how far down it went.

Sansa’s voiced interrupted his thoughts.

“Sandor. Will you sit?”

Sitting was the last thing Sandor wanted to do. He wanted to find the man who had done this to Sansa Stark. He shifted his weight between his feet, restless and agitated.

_Order me to split his skull open for you. Please._

Sansa continued to peer up at him. Her eyes glistened with tears and moonlight. Sandor stared into them. He felt his anger begin to dissipate - a sudden, deep remorse taking its place.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you.”

“Sit.”

Sandor did as he was bid. Sansa took a deep breath, preparing to continue.

“He would go out hunting for days at a time. Those were my happiest nights, without him. But he always came back, with some new game for me. Once...” Sansa exhaled, her breath catching momentarily.

“I missed my moonblood twice in a row. When Ramsay found out, he pushed me to the ground and drove his boot into my stomach half a dozen times. I bled for days afterwards.”

Sandor blinked. “The fucker didn’t want an heir?”

“I’m sure he intended to have one eventually. He just wanted to see what would happen. That was Ramsay.”

“Was?” _Don’t tell me Jon got to him before I could._

Sansa fell silent. She pressed her lips into a thin, taut line. She cast her eyes across the room, staring absently at the wall.

“He’s dead.”

“I’m glad for it.”

Silence. She stared. Sandor frowned, confused.

_Why should she be unhappy about that?_

“I killed him.”

Sandor straightened. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard right.

“You?”

“He had these hounds. Vile things. I starved them and set them on him. I watched as they tore him apart.”

Sandor watched her face. She betrayed nothing. They sat in the heavy quiet for several moments. Sandor’s head was spinning. He had no idea what to make of what she was telling him. He folded his hands in his lap, looking down at his fingers.

“So. You’re a killer now, too. Just like me.”

He regretted the words as soon as they had left his mouth.

_Stupid._

To his surprise, she smiled again.

“Just like you.”

It was her turn to watch him. Her face was much more serene - she seemed to have calmed considerably. She spoke again after a moment.

“Thank you for listening, Sandor. I think I can fall asleep.”

Sandor stood, smoothing out the front of his tunic. He felt slightly dazed after so many ugly stories. He had a lot to think about. He reached for the canopy curtain and put it back in its place.

“Goodnight, Sansa. If you need anything else, I’m outside.”

He started for the door, before she stopped him.

“Sandor?” Her voice was quiet again.

He turned. He could see only her silhouetted shadow against the moonlit walls.

“We’ve both got scars now.”

_•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••_

 


	7. Chapter 7

**• Chapter Seven •**

Sandor did not sleep. He wasn’t sure he would ever sleep again. His mind felt as if it were on fire. Thoughts raced faster than he could follow, all involving the violent ways in which Sandor longed to have brought about Ramsay Bolton’s end.

 

_Squish the little cunt’s skull under my boot. Listen to the sound of his brains leaking out his ears._

 

It had been some time since Sandor had had reason to engage in any real brutality. These days he killed only out of necessity. Regardless, part of him sorely wished that this Ramsay was still alive.

 

_Let me show you how it feels to be mutilated._

Sandor sat on the floor, his back against the wooden door of his chambers. He had collapsed there this morning after his shift was over. He was surprised he’d even been able to find the guest wing – his vision had been so blurred by rage. The moment he’d entered his chambers his knees gave way. He sunk to the floor, falling into a kind of faraway stupor.

 

After some time, sunlight began to stream through the window. It was the wrong time of the day to be feeling so worn. Sandor blinked hard, cursing the bright and offensive interruption.

 

Sandor’s life was now to be lived in reverse, he realized. His fitful, nightmare-riddled sleep would accompany the daylight, a bright and bustling Winterfell beneath his window. At nightfall, he would report to his equally frightening occupation; the rest of the world oblivious to the screams and cries of his charge. Sandor winced as he recalled the evening previous, pressing his fists against his eyelids.

 

_I’d kill him a thousand times over for you._

Peppered amongst his feelings of intense rage, there was confusion too. Sandor still could not understand why the Little Bird chose to confide in him, chose to have _him_ stand guard outside her chambers. They had never before had that kind of familiarity, as much as Sandor might have wished otherwise. She had plenty of ladies of the court to seek counsel with. Hells, even Brienne seemed like a more sensible option. So why him?

 

His memory flashed back to King’s Landing – of a younger, more innocent face. Her mouth bleeding after yet another strike from her betrothed. Sandor had reached for her that day. Wiped the blood from her lip and spoke counsel to the lost bird. He remembered being surprised at himself – The Hound was not a man known for his acts of kindness.

 

_She found something in me, even then._

Sandor had always taken an interest in the girl. If anyone were to ask, he’d say it was merely the face of a pretty highborn that stirred his favour. Perhaps this was true, once. She was certainly beautiful – though Sandor could have never guessed how much she would grow and change over the years. She was so different now, nothing like the frightened little bird he’d rescued so long ago.

 

_I killed him._

 

The words swam circles around Sandor’s mind. Sansa had tasted blood. She may never know the weight of a broadsword, but she knew what it was to kill. In a strange way, Sandor felt fonder of the girl than ever before.

_She sees me now._

He was sorry that she had been pushed to such extremes. He would have done the dirty deed for her in a heartbeat, had she asked. Part of Sandor still wanted to shield the girl from men’s brutality – though he supposed that was impossible now. She had seen the worst kind of monster, what was Sandor to her now?

He’d never hurt her. She knew that. She recognized him as safe to confide in. The ladies of the court could never hear her stories; they’d only run in fright. The little bird knew he would understand. Would never judge. It all suddenly made sense.

 

_We’ve both got scars now._

Sandor pulled himself off of the floor with a low groan. His thigh twinged. He took the three steps to his bed and collapsed onto it. He wasn’t certain he could sleep, but his bones ached. His chest ached too, though he didn’t think it had anything to do with his dinner. Sandor felt an odd kind of pressure, as though his breathing was being hindered. As he stared up at the ceiling, he saw nothing but Sansa’s face.

 

Sandor imagined himself running a hand down the side of it. Gently, so gently.

 

He could be gentle. He would have to be – he wanted no comparisons drawn between him and the monster that had hurt her. He would keep her safe. For as long as the dead men allowed, Sandor would be her protector.

 

_I’ve got you, Little Bird._

 

 

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short and mushy one. Hope you enjoy.


End file.
